


Simon Snow and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Hair Day

by flammable_grimm_pitch



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beards (Facial Hair), Body Hair, Crack, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Magic Gone Wrong, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Explicit Sex, Simon Snow is an Idiot, Spells & Enchantments, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, Watford (Simon Snow), Watford Seventh Year, discord made me do it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28073697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammable_grimm_pitch/pseuds/flammable_grimm_pitch
Summary: Baz comes back to Watford sporting a beard, and Simon is uPsEt about it.PLEASE NOTE: The rating for this fic has been upgraded to 'Mature' because of non-explicit sexual content.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 14
Kudos: 54





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laeveleve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laeveleve/gifts).



> Inspired by some lovely art of beardy Baz by laeveleve. Thanks to Dem (OtherWorldsIveLivedIn) and chiara_scuro for being sounding boards as I played with ideas for this. Also, thank you so much to May (twokisses) for beta reading my draft and telling me this wasn't complete trash.
> 
> If discussion of body hair is squicky for you, then this ain't the crack fic for you.

**Penny**

When Baz shows up at Watford eight weeks late for the start of term, Simon is livid — but not for any of the reasons I thought he would be. Mostly, it’s because Baz is sporting a rather nice beard.

“Wh-what the fuck?” Simon splutters, glaring at Baz with indignant rage. “That’s just…not fair!”

“What isn’t?” I ask, more focused on the toast in my hand than on anything Simon might have to say about Baz. He’s already far surpassed his quota of Baz-talk for the term, and Baz hasn’t even been here for him to complain about. He’s well and truly obsessed.

“Look at his face!” Simon snaps, pointing with his fork.

“What, the beard?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. Of all the things for Simon to be jealous of…

“Yes, Penny, _the beard,_ ” he huffs. “I can go two full weeks without needing a shave, and Baz is…well, just look at him!”

“Simon, it’s just a bit of facial hair,” I say gently. “I’m sure yours will come in, too. Dark-haired people tend to grow thicker hair, you know.” I grimace as I think about how often I find myself spelling my brows and upper lip to keep my hair at bay — brown girl problems, I tell you. It’s a constant battle.

“S’not fair,” he repeats sullenly through a mouthful of eggs.

* * * * *

**Simon**

Baz emerges from the ensuite the next morning in a cloud of steam, his hair slicked back and his jaw smooth as an egg. Of course he’d get rid of his beard — people who can grow a decent one never appreciate it for the gift that it is.

“Why’d you shave?” I question, failing to sound as casual as I’d hoped.

“Because I felt like it,” Baz says, quirking an eyebrow. “Is that a problem, Snow?”

“No!” I say quickly, averting my eyes from the sharp line of his jaw. I’ve just had an awkward thought. If Baz’s beard grows like that, he’s probably got an impressive amount of chest hair, too. I'm not jealous, no matter what Penny says — I’m _not._ “I just, uh…”

“Use your words,” he sneers, threading the tongue of his tie through the knot and tightening it to just below his collar. I've imagined grabbing him by that stupid tie a hundred times, dragging him forward, and—

“Are you hairy everywhere?” I blurt out idiotically. “I mean, like, your chest?” _Smooth, Simon._ I should just keep my mouth shut and my brain off, because everything I’m thinking and saying sounds well gay, which I'm _not_. And blokes are _not_ supposed to ask these sorts of things of each other. Well, no one's ever explicitly told me that we aren't meant to, but it seems like an off-limits subject.

“That’s rather personal, don’t you think?” Baz asks, his pale cheeks pink from the heat of his shower. “Do you go around asking everyone about their body hair, Snow, or am I just lucky enough to be your roommate?”

“Piss off,” I growl, pretending to focus my attention on a book the Mage wants me to read. “It just—slipped out, all right? Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Baz snarks, rolling his eyes. “You know, if you’ve got questions about hair growing in places it didn’t before, you could always ask the Mage. I’m sure he would be thrilled to have those sorts of father-son chats with you.”

 _“Shut up!”_ I snarl, tossing my pillow at him. "He's _not_ my father — not my anything!" It hits him square in the face, and I brace myself for the Anathema to respond by making my arm numb or something, but I'm spared for some odd reason. Maybe it felt my response to Baz’s nasty comment was justified? I realize I've overreacted, but it reminds me of that one funny bit by some American comedian on the telly where he yells, _That's the thing I'm sensitive about!_

Baz always hits me right where it hurts. Arsehole.

The discussion ends then and there, and Baz and I don’t talk for the rest of the day, except for a few snide jabs back and forth during class.

* * * * *

**Baz**

Mandatory PE is both a blessing and a curse. At Watford, students are given the option of doing regular PE, which involves less competitive activities such as dance and yoga, or athletics, which is a mix of cardio, weight training, and complex sport units like football or tennis. Even though Snow doesn’t go out for any of the school teams, he’s in the athletics class with me this year for the first time. I suppose the Mage wants his errand-boy to maintain peak physical fitness instead of stumbling over his feet and waltzing around with Bunce.

Coach Mac likes to have us do laps around the pitch to warm up, and because of my vampire speed, I’m always at the front of the pack with Wellbelove, who is an excellent runner. I avoid running behind Snow at all costs — the school-issued shorts he wears leave very little to the imagination. It appears he’s got steam to blow off today, though, because he’s matching Agatha's and my pace without issue. I catch the bounce of his curls from the corner of my eye and find myself imagining what it would feel like to touch them, to run my fingers through the bronze softness of his hair.

After the warm up, Wellbelove is thrilled because Coach announces that our next two-week block will be lacrosse. The rules are adjusted a bit for co-ed play, but it remains a fast-paced game that requires good hand-eye coordination and a fair bit of strategy. It’s unusually warm for this time of year, so by the end of the class, we’ve all soaked through our kits. Simon's cheeks are ruddy and red, obscuring those damnable freckles and moles of his.

The locker rooms are split by gender, and though I can only speak for the men’s room, there are communal showers. I’ve rinsed off with Dev, Niall and the rest of the team a thousand times without giving it a thought, but now that Snow is in our class, I’m in a bit of a bind. Here I am, minding my own damn business, thinking of dead kittens so that there are no awkward tented towel situations, when out of the corner of my eye, I notice Snow ogling my bare chest — staring right at me without an ounce of shame!

If we were in our own room, I wouldn’t hesitate to call him out on this odd, voyeuristic behaviour, but because we’re in a room full of other (naked) guys, I choose to hold my tongue. Sometimes his eyes glaze over and he stares off into space, but I don't think this is that. And his gaze isn’t lecherous so much as a matter of curiosity. Has he never showered with other people before or something?

I make a mental note to bring it up if I notice it happening again, but I don’t get the chance — Snow barrels into our bedroom later in the afternoon smelling of smoky, green wood, brimming to overflow with questions.

“Can I ask you something weird?” He pants, collapsing in a heap on his bed. I’m at my desk trying to revise for an upcoming test, but I can’t concentrate with Snow breathing like he’s just run up ten flights of stairs.

“Every question you’ve ever asked me is weird,” I respond, which he takes as an invitation to ask away.

“How are you so, um…” He trails off, pauses awkwardly. “Well, in the locker room today, I saw—well, not that I was _trying_ to look, mind you! But I noticed that, er…well, most of the other blokes have a lot more hair than you. On their chests, I mean. And other places.” He says this last bit quietly enough that if I didn’t have extraordinary hearing abilities, I might have missed it. Thank goodness I haven't fed yet today, or I'd be bright red.

What on earth does he mean by _other places_?

With a sigh, I turn in my chair to face him. “It’s called personal grooming, Snow,” I say, regarding him with as casual an expression as I can manage. It's difficult, because my brain and my dick are on two different wavelengths here. “The Normals that raised you own razors and trimmers, don’t they?”

“Course they do,” he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve just, um…never shaved anything other than my face, so, um, I was just wondering…”

 _That’s_ what he’s prattling on about? Crowley, this is certainly not a conversation I want to be having right now, or _ever_ , for that matter. But Snow looks so pitifully curious that I can’t bear to leave him hanging.

“Alright, what do you want to know?” I sigh again. _Dead kittens, dead kittens, dead kittens. Do not look at his stupid, lovely mouth, Baz._

“How do you—no, _why_ — do you shave your, um, chest and…stuff?” He asks confusedly. "I didn't think blokes did that sort of thing, just girls. Legs and armpits, y'know."

“Lots of reasons,” I shrug. “I like the way it looks and feels to keep things trimmed, for starters. It makes me more confident about my body. And for people who sweat a lot — when playing sports, for example — it helps to prevent body odour, because there isn't any place for bacteria to grow.”

“So what, do you just use scissors?” Simon asks, frowning. “I don’t want—I mean, _people_ probably don’t want it all gone. A razor would get rid of it all, wouldn’t it?” He's getting at the fact that I don't shave myself right down to the skin.

“I use a spell,” I tell him, “But it can be rather finicky. Intention matters, and if you don’t say it properly, you can end up with a lot less hair than you originally intended.”

I definitely leave out the fact that after Fiona taught me the basics of magickal hair removal, I spelled my eyebrows clean off, and she laughed about it for ten whole minutes before she helped me to put them back. That's a story I'll keep to myself, thanks very much.

“What’s the spell?” He questions, resting his chin on his palms and kicking his feet up in the air behind him.

“I’m not so sure I should tell you,” I say airily. “Remember the incident with Wellbelove and your miscast _**Hair of the dog**?_ Surely you wouldn’t want a repeat of that.”

“That was one time!” He insists sharply. “Come on, just tell me the spell you use.”

“Do you even _have_ any chest hair, Snow?”

“None of your business,” he mumbles, a bright flush creeping up his neck. Unlike him, I kept my eyes to myself in the showers today.

"I'm not telling you," I say decidedly, turning back to my class notes. "You'll fuck it up, just like you fuck everything else up, and I don't want to suffer the fallout just because we live in the same room." A growl tears from his throat, and a moment later our bedroom door slams, followed by the thunder of Simon's shoes on the stairs. Thank Crowley — I wasn't sure how much more of that I could take.

* * * * *

**Agatha**

Simon has been doing some rather strange "research" this last week or so. He's about as subtle as a brick, but I can tell he's at least trying not to be overly weird about it. And by "strange", I mean to say that he's taken a sudden interest in Penny's and my shaving habits.

"So, like...how often do you shave your legs?" He inquires one afternoon while we were studying out on the lawn. I'd taken off my stockings and shoes so I could feel the grass between my toes, and I guess he got curious? Simon Snow was weird when he was my boyfriend, and surprise surprise, he's still a bit of an odd duckling afterwards as well. 

"Maybe every five-ish days?" I estimate, glancing up to see that he's inspecting my ankle instead of doing the Magic Words reading we've been assigned. "My hair's blonde, so it's not particularly visible. I don't shave my legs at all in winter — it's too cold, and I wear leggings the whole time anyways." 

"More like every other day for me," Penny complains, glancing up from the assignment she's writing. "I don't like it when my legs get all prickly, even if I'm the only one touching them." 

Simon nods and picks at the grass, though I see him staring with laser-focus at my exposed leg. He's never shown much interest in them before, even when we were dating, which I thought was perhaps strange for a teenage boy. His head was always filled with other more pressing matters — battling dark creatures, stalking Baz Pitch, that sort of thing. 

"Are you considering shaving _your_ legs, Simon?" I ask, gently probing for his purpose in all of this. 

"What? No!" He says, pulling a face. "Blokes don't shave their legs, Aggie. Wait...do they?" He glances between Penny and I for an answer, as though we're the experts on men's personal grooming habits. 

"I think swimmers and some professional athletes must do," Penny hazards a guess. "You never see hairy Olympians on telly or magazine covers. Has something to do with aerodynamics, I'd imagine." 

Simon considers this as he hikes up one trouser leg and has a look at the thatch of coppery-blonde hair growing above his socks. Maybe he's having a body image crisis? He's often made off-handed comments about not being particularly attractive, though most girls that are interested in boys find him easy on the eyes, and charming in a boyish way. He has the sweetest blue eyes, and there's something lovely about how freckly he is. 

He mutters something to himself, something that sounds suspiciously like it's about Baz, which Penny and I ignore. It's for Simon's own good, really. 

* * * * *

**Simon**

I'm determined to figure out what spell Baz uses to 'manscape'. That's what Penny says it's called, though she stopped me before I could say anything about why I was asking.

"Simon, I love you dearly," she told me, "But please, for snakes' sake, keep your _intimate_ grooming habits to yourself. Or I'll lend you my phone, if you promise to use the private browser or delete the search history."

I did a bit of asking around in the locker room last week, but nobody seemed keen on talking about shaving anything but their faces. Mostly they just joke about whether a girl has "carpet that matches the drapes" and all that rot. I get it, I do — it's an awkward topic for blokes. Agatha says girls talk about that sort of thing pretty often, and she and Penny were quite open with me, but I think that's just because we've all been mates for so long. 

Back at the care homes, you'd get the shit kicked out of you for bringing this sort of thing up. It's not talked about, but a fair number of the boys I lived with had experienced abuse at the hands of their biological or foster parents. It's not obvious, per se, but some of the boys wouldn't get changed in front of the others, or would fly off the handle if someone touched them, even accidentally. Not the sort of environment you can ask personal questions in, to say the least. 

So that's why I've been leaned against the door of the ensuite with my ear pressed to the wood every morning for the past week, listening for the sound of Baz's voice. He's got a five-o'clock shadow at the end of every day, so his hair must grow quickly. And today is the day he's going to use that spell, I just know it.

It's a bit awkward, because I've definitely overheard some things I hadn't counted on, like the sharp hitch of Baz's breath as he tried to have a discreet wank. I might take up Penny's offer to borrow her mobile, because I want to know if it's normal to get hard just from hearing another bloke wanking. Google always has answers to weird questions like that. And then midway through last week, I thought I heard a bit of sniffling, and his eyes were red-rimmed when he stormed out into our room. He spent most of that night in the catacombs, likely visiting his mother's tomb. He misses her sometimes, I think.

The scrape of shower curtain being dragged across the metal rod sounds, and Baz's shadow comes into view, obscuring the light at the base of the bathroom door. He's humming a catchy tune that I'm sure will be stuck in my head for the rest of the day. The medicine cabinet above the sink creaks as Baz opens it, probably so he can take out his skin products. I've looked at all the labels before, just out of curiosity, and the only name I recognized was moisturizer. Whatever they're all for, they obviously work, because Baz has got the complexion of one of those china dolls; soft and smooth, and cool as porcelain, I'm sure. He hardly ever has spots, the lucky bastard.

There's a soft swish of fabric as his towel hits the floor, and then...

 _ **"The best a man can get,"**_ I hear Baz murmur.

 _Bingo!_ That has to be it. I recognize it from one of those razor adverts that was always playing on the TV at the care home during the summer — Gillette or Wilkinson Sword, one of those popular brands.

I hurry back to my bed and pull out a comic book, which I'm pretending to read when Baz steps out of the bathroom, ready for the day. He ignores me, mostly because I'm keeping to myself, but also because he's running late for breakfast. I'm always in the dining hall right as breakfast starts, both because I'm starving when I wake up, and because I want to get at everything while it's still hot and fresh. Penny can tease me as much as she likes, but I'll be the one who's laughing when there's no kippers left by the time she shows up.

Baz has a late football practice this evening, so I decide that this is the best time to give the shaving spell a go. He said that it's finicky, and that intention matters, so I figure that means I'll have to imagine exactly how I want things to look in order for it to work properly. I don't need to be all smooth like the actors in porn videos, but I do like the idea of smelling a bit better after PE. I've been hesitant about doing anything about the hair _down there_ because the one time I gave it a go, I got terrible razor burn and had an itchy crotch for days. But Baz...he seemed to have the right sort of idea, from what I saw in the shower that day after we played lacrosse.

I remember Penny and Agatha talking about shaving their legs once, and Aggie said that it helps to have a bath first so your skin and hair have a chance to soften up. I nick myself shaving pretty much every time I try, but I also only shower at night, so perhaps Aggie's got the right idea by wetting things first. I hop into the shower and lather everything up with Baz's shampoo, just because I like to feel all posh and luxurious sometimes. He'll probably notice that a bit is missing from his bottle, the observant git. After I've rinsed off and stood under the burning hot water for another minute or two, I step out and towel off just so I won't drip all over the floor. Baz always complains if I leave things a mess, especially if I've come in after a particularly muddy pick-up game on the pitch.

There's a full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, which I stand in front of — completely starkers — so I can have a look at myself. As usual, I don't love what I see. My shoulders are broad, but I'm not as muscular or toned as I'd like to be. I've got freckles everywhere, and I'm self-conscious about the moles that dot my skin. Also a bit concerned about skin cancer, because how am I supposed to know what's normal and what isn't? Can mages even get cancer? I rub the towel against my head to dry my hair, but now it's all sticky-outy and frizzy. It'll dry fine, probably.

"Well, here goes nothing," I sigh, reaching for my wand, which I stowed in the toothbrush holder for safe-keeping. I close my eyes, imagine myself with a smooth, fuzz-less jaw and upper lip, and neatly trimmed pubes instead of the messy bush I've got right now, and I repeat the spell I heard Baz use this morning: _**"The best a man can get!"**_

My skin tingles, as if the cool metal of a knife has been brushed over me. It doesn't hurt, though, just tickles a bit. Holding my breath, I open my eyes so I can survey the damage.

"Oh, fuck me."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was going to just be two chapters, but I think I need a third to wrap things up. The story got away from me!

All my hair is gone — and I mean _all_ of it: head, face, arms and legs, crotch. I even check the backs of my fingers and toes, only to find that the few hairs that are usually growing there have disappeared, too. "Fuuuuuck."

"Snow, what are you whinging on about?" Baz's voice sounds out in our room. He’s not supposed to be back from practice yet! What the hell is he doing here? 

"Uhhh, nothing?" I reply quickly, but it comes out an octave higher than usual. Not suspicious at all. 

“Well, hurry up, will you?" he snaps impatiently. "I need to get in there.” 

"Use the bathroom downstairs," I suggest, reaching up to touch the pale patches of skin where my eyebrows existed just a minute ago. Fuck my life, this is bad. 

“All of my things are in _this_ bathroom, you numpty,” Baz reminds me. “And why does it stink of magic out here? Have you blown up the toilet again?" 

"Piss off," I growl back. "The toilet's fine. I just need a, uh, few more minutes.” He gives an exaggerated sigh, but after another minute of huffing, puffing, and rifling around in his wardrobe, he stomps out of the room and slams the door behind him. 

Now that he’s gone, I chance another look at myself in the mirror again. Eight snakes, have I always been this pale? When I rub my legs together, it feels _exactly_ the way Pen described it — like two baby dolphins rubbing against each other, all smooth and slippery. 

I avoid inspecting the area between my legs at all costs, because I know for a fact my cock and bollocks look even weirder naked than they did when there was hair there — like one of those sad, wrinkly sphinx cats. _There’s a thought I’ll never be able to unthink._

Once I’ve settled down enough to think about this rationally, I realize that I’ve only got two real options here: I can either go out looking like this — a bald and eyebrow-less numpty — long enough to have Penny fix me up, or I can try to spell my hair back myself. I wrack my brain for a spell that might do the trick. 

_**Hair of the dog**_ is meant to cure hangovers, but because my magic has a mind of its own, it made hair grow all over Agatha’s body the time I tried it on her. That’s a bit overkill for what I’m trying to achieve here. _**Becky with the good hair**_ could work, but I’m not sure how popular Beyoncé and her music are around Watford. I’m also not keen on walking around with long hair like a girl. I suppose Baz has longish hair as well, but he’s not me. He can pull it off, the gorgeous git. 

After another minute or two of wrestling with my options, I decide that texting Penny (using the mobile Baz hides in his nightstand drawer, because I haven’t got one) to come help me out is probably my best bet. She’ll mock me until I die, but better that than having to visit the infirmary and explain why I’m covered from head to toe in hair. The matron guessed immediately what had gone wrong that time with Agatha, and she’ll probably just assume I’ve tried to cure another hangover, and tell the Mage I’ve been drinking at school. 

I’ve forgotten to bring extra clothes with me into the bathroom, and Baz hasn’t come back yet, so I wrap my towel back round my waist and make a mad dash for my wardrobe. I’m halfway across the room when a sharp intake of breath alerts me to the fact that I’m not, in fact, alone. 

“What in the fuck have you done to yourself now, Snow?” Baz demands in that condescending, grating tone of his. If I weren’t so surprised, I might have socked him right in that crooked fucking nose of his for the snide remark. 

“Baz!” I yelp, nearly dropping my towel. He’s standing beside the door with his arms crossed and staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. “I, uh, thought you went downstairs to use the toilet!” He cocks his head to one side as if to say, _Obviously not._

“You tried my shaving spell, didn’t you?” He accuses, stifling a laugh. His expression is halfway between amused and horrified, which, to be honest, is fair given the situation. 

“Yeah, well…” I stammer, unsure what else to say. He’s hit the nail on the head, and there’s no use denying it. The evidence is written across my face. Well, more like _erased_ from my face. And my head. And my legs. And— 

“You’re an idiot,” he sighs dramatically. “I told you it was a finicky bit of magic, yet you had to go and try it anyway, didn’t you? Just another example of your incapability to perform the basic spells required of a decent mage, Snow.” 

“You didn’t say it might get rid of everything!” I shout back, frantically digging through one of my drawers in search of some clean pants. Being naked but for a towel in front of Baz is making my body do weird things, even though he’s being a right arse, so I need to get dressed ASAP. 

_“Everything?”_ he repeats shakily. I turn around and glare at him. 

“Yes, Baz, _everything,_ ” I sneer, taking a note from his book. “I’m smooth all over, not a hair in sight; it’s bloody horrific.” 

“Crowley,” he says in a strangled whisper. 

Baz makes a beeline for the window, and for the first time ever, he’s the one who opens it. He rests his elbows on the sill and leans out as though he’s going to be sick, right into the moat. (I wouldn’t put it past him; he really hates those merwolves, and the fishy stench of their scales tends to drift into our room on breezy days.) It gives me the time and privacy to grab my pyjamas and sneak back to the bathroom. When I return, he’s seated on the edge of his bed with his wand in hand. 

“All right then, let’s get you sorted,” he says brusquely, keeping his eyes trained on the wall just past my head. “I’ve half a mind to let you walk around like this for a while so that everyone can see how much of an imbecile you are, but for reasons I will _not_ be elaborating on, I’ll fix things up for you, just this once.” 

When I’ve sat down on the edge of my own mattress directly across from him, our knees almost touching, he reaches out and takes my chin in his rough, cool hand, tilts my head this way and that so he can get a good look at the damage I’ve done. He presses his lips together, suppressing a smile, and I want to smack the resulting smirk off his stupid face. 

“I’ll fix what I can see, but that’s all I can do,” he says, releasing his hold on my jaw. “I’ll even do you a favour and fix that chavvy excuse for a haircut, even it out a bit so you look less like a juvenile delinquent.” 

“What about the, uh…rest of it?” I ask, swallowing hard. My cheeks are flaming red, and I can’t get rid of the lump in my throat. Literally can’t think of a time when I’ve been more embarrassed. “Can’t you just put it all back the way it was?” 

“That’s not the way the spell works,” he explains, gripping the leather handle of his wand tightly. “It’s like the shaving spell that you _clearly_ weren’t capable of controlling; you have to imagine things exactly the way you want them, or it won’t work properly.” 

“That’s what I did!” I groan, pressing my hands to my face to cover my shame. “I imagined my face without the peach fuzz, and my, uh… _you know_ …more the way yours is.” 

“Excuse me?” Baz asks after a short pause, his eyebrows nearly reaching his peaked hairline. He must have showered after his footie practice because his dark hair, still a bit damp, is swept to one side instead of slicked back the way he does it in the mornings. I like it much better this way. 

“I was trying to, you know, _trim things up,_ like you said!” I tell him, blushing furiously. 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

“The way mine is?” I question, wincing. _Why_ does Snow know how I trim my pubic hair? And then I remember — that day in the showers after PE a few weeks ago. He was looking at me funny, staring, like he’d never seen a guy with chest hair before. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to look!” He splutters indignantly. Snow raises his hands to grab at his curls and yank them, the way he always does when he’s getting overwhelmed, but when there’s nothing there to grab anymore, he begins to panic. The air around him starts to shimmer and heat up, and our room fills with the pungent scent of brimstone. 

“Let’s just fix things one at a time, shall we?” I suggest evenly, aiming my wand at his head. We need to get this dealt with before Snow goes off and incinerates all of Mummers. _**“Not a hair out of place,”**_ I speak clearly. Simon shivers as my spell works over him. It probably feels really strange to have several inches of hair grow out of your head in a matter of seconds, now that I think about it. I breathe a sigh of relief as he springs up from his bed and races for the bathroom to inspect my handiwork. Explosion avoided. 

“Baz, this is brilliant,” he calls over his shoulder a minute later, which has me preening. Snow almost never praises my magic. “I mean, I can tell you did something a bit different with my eyebrows,” he says a bit grudgingly, “But I suppose that’s fine because now Aggie won’t insist on plucking them again anytime soon.” (Why am I not surprised to hear that Wellbelove is in charge of Snow’s eyebrow maintenance?) 

His relief at having his hair back to its natural state is palpable in the room around me; it’s already cooling down. The open window probably helps. (I considered chucking myself out of it earlier, but the thought of coming face to face with those bloody merwolves again made me think twice.) 

A moment later, there’s a softly murmured, “Oh,” followed by the snap of the elastic waistband of his pyjama trousers. Apparently my attempt to keep my mind from wandering below the belt as I cast that spell worked, because his eyes are trained on the floor when he comes back out into our room. 

“So, um, most of it’s back,” He informs me sheepishly, sitting back down on his bed. 

“Like I said, there are some things I can’t replace,” I remind him, willing my eyes to stay on his face and not flicker down towards his crotch. _Not unless I can see what I’m working with,_ I refrain from saying. 

“What if I, er—described how I want it?” He suggests, wincing when he realizes how weird of a request this is. “Or I could, I dunno, draw it out for you?” 

“Crowley below,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut. Every time I think he’s said the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, he manages to prove me wrong. “Snow, why does this matter so much to you? It’ll grow back soon enough, you know. A week or two, depending on—” 

“I don’t want anyone to see me like this!” He shouts in a startlingly impassioned panic. 

“Who would be _seeing_ you?” I ask, swallowing hard. “I thought you and Wellbelove were finished.” Is he seeing someone else, and I’ve just been too daft to notice? 

“Bloody every bloke in the shower after PE!” Snow roars, literally spitting in my face. “You know how it is, walking around in there. S’like a non-stop dick measuring contest, even if no one says it. And I’ve no hair on my legs, either. Might as well just tell people I borrowed Penny’s razor and went to town.” 

I gape at him for a moment, trying to understand what he’s just said. Snow is worried about other people seeing him in the shower and…what, seeing his cock? Judging him for having shaved? (Technically, he _spelled_ himself as hairless as a naked mole rat, but the details aren’t important.) 

“You don’t think someone’s going to judge you for how you look, do you?” I ask gently. “Simon, I don’t think anyone would even notice, let alone _say_ something about it. That would just be asking for trouble, don’t you think?” 

“I—well, I dunno,” Simon huffs, breathing hard. There’s a vein bulging on his forehead that I’m a bit concerned by for non-vampire reasons. It can’t bode well for his blood pressure. “It’s just…embarrassing, y’know? Nobody else looks like this. Not that I’ve seen, at least.” 

I won’t lie and say that I’ve never glanced around at other guys in the locker room; I don’t even think it’s because I’m gay. Humans are naturally curious creatures that tend to compare themselves to each other, and teen boys are notoriously concerned about their image. I guess Simon’s insecurities aren’t so strange, now that I think about it. 

“You could use the single stall and shower there for a few days, just until everything’s…you know, mostly back to normal,” I advise casually. “Some people prefer a bit of privacy. No one would begrudge you that.” 

“I guess,” Simon shrugs. “Suppose that makes more sense than…er, never mind.” 

“More sense than what?” I query, entirely out of curiosity, and not at all because I can guess at his line of thinking. (A lie — I know exactly where he’s going with this. But what can I say? I’m disturbed.) 

“We’re both blokes,” he says as if this is new information for me. “I could just, er, show you? So you could spell things back for me, I mean.” 

What I should say is _Absolutely not. That’s both the dumbest and most inappropriate idea I’ve ever heard, Snow. I’m your roommate, for Chomsky’s sake!_

What I _do_ say is, “Yeah, all right. Let’s see, then.” 

Without ceremony, Simon stands up and drops his trousers and boxers to his ankles, baring himself to me as though this were just a normal part of his daily routine. _Shower, shave, flash Baz, read a book for a few minutes…_

As far as flaccid cocks go, Snow’s is rather nice, I think. Not that I have a lot of experience with penises aside from my own; this is the first one I’ve had an up-close and personal encounter with. Which is to say, I sit here and stare at it with complete disregard for the task at hand. 

“Uh, Baz?” Snow says uncertainly after a long moment of silence. He’s shirtless and trouserless with his cock at my eye-level. It’s distracting, to put things simply. 

“Yes, Snow?” I whisper, tearing my gaze away from the exposed appendage to meet his eyes. 

“Everything alright?” 

“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?” I ask, wincing as my voice cracks like it did in the dark days, back when I was a pubescent 14-year-old. Fucking pathetic. 

“N-nothing,” Simon stutters. “Just, um, are you gonna…?” 

“Right, of course,” I say, shaking away the feeling of fogginess from my brain. “Tell me again what I’m doing here? How you’d like things to look…down here?” 

“Well, it, er, used to be quite the, uh—” 

“Bush?” I offer helpfully, pressing my legs together tightly in an attempt to fend off an impending hard-on. Snow’s cheeks go even redder at my use of such a crass term. Definitely not a word I’ve used before, at least not in polite company. 

“That, yes,” Simon chokes out, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he shifts his weight back on his heels. “But I’d rather something a bit, er…cleaner? Short and tidy, more like yours?” 

“Like mine,” I repeat for the second time today, still surprised that he’s been so bold as to acknowledge he’s seen me naked — looked at me, consciously thought about me and stored that in his memory. Snow is literally trying to kill me. “I can try that,” I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. 

Closing my eyes, I picture the swath of soft skin (below his navel, between his legs) that I’ve just had a close encounter with — paler than the rest of him because it’s usually covered by his clothes — with a neat dusting of golden-bronze hair. I imagine how coarse it might be against my fingers if I were to reach out and brush my hand across his lower belly. I envision it growing between and down his legs, thinning significantly as it covers his thighs and calves. I say the spell again even though my wand is on the bed beside me, and I stay perfectly still as Simon shudders in front of me, his breath punching out of him in a low whimper. 

When I open my eyes again, I see that it’s worked. Simon’s hair has returned exactly as I intended for it to, coating his body in all the right places, and at all the right lengths. There’s a lovely, honey-brown trail running from his navel downwards that I’d like to brush my nose through, press a thousand little kisses to. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Simon mutters, drawing my attention. I stare up at him to see that his mouth is hanging open, and his heavy-lidded eyes gazing down at me like I’m something to eat. 

“What?” I snarl, startled by his expression. “Have I missed something else? Did you want a hairy arse crack as well, or can we move on?” Simon’s tongue darts out of his mouth, and his eyes flicker down towards his crotch, which I’ve pointedly avoided since squeezing my eyes shut one long, drawn-out minute ago. 

“Your um, hand?” he says, his brows knitting together in confusion. “It’s, er…” 

“My hand,” I parrot back, following his gaze. 

My hand, as he’s so eloquently explained, has developed a mind of its own, apparently, because it’s wrapped firmly around Snow’s half-hard dick. Odder still, he’s just standing there, motionless before me. He hasn’t pulled back, hasn’t sucker-punched me into next week, isn’t screaming bloody murder about the fact that I’m touching his cock. 

The only explanation is that this must be a dream — a terribly confusing one, where Snow doesn’t break character as he usually does to lean in for a kiss. I sit there, staring, not breathing, even when the rush of blood in my ears becomes overwhelmingly loud. The edges of my vision begin to fade, my grasp weakens, and I begin to slip into unconsciousness (or perhaps back to consciousness — this is a dream, after all). 

The last thing I hear before everything goes black is Snow’s voice frantically calling my name.


End file.
